


No Rest for the Wicked

by rebel_diamond



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Assassin!Gold, F/M, This is a dark romantic comedy about an assassin set to doo-wop music
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-18 15:30:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16997646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebel_diamond/pseuds/rebel_diamond
Summary: Rumford Gold is tired. He may have lost his taste for killing people. Which is a problem considering it’s his job. Unable to complete his latest assignment, he's stranded in an obnoxiously chipper small town and continually distracted by the town's captivating librarian.Belle French is growing weary of her role as Storybrooke's resident good girl. Every day she sits in her empty library, surrounded by the places she’ll never get to see. When a mysterious stranger comes into town, Belle thinks she might have found her great romantic adventure.Job undone, Gold’s assassin colleagues descend on the town. Forced to make a choice, Gold has to decide: Tell Belle the truth about being an assassin and ruin the image she has of him or complete the job while trying to protect Belle...including from himself.





	1. Chapter 1

_ Blood was hell on silk. _

Rumford Gold pursed his lips, dabbing at the dark stain currently setting into the light blue tie at the center of his chest. 

It wasn’t his blood. He’d be less annoyed if it was. 

Abandoning the blotch, he sighed deeply. Letting the cloth fall from his fingers he smoothed it against his chest and tucked it back into his vest. That’s why a good, discrete dry cleaner was indispensable in his line of business.   

Many people thought assassins were ninjas skulking around rooftops after dark, outfitted head to toe in black. He’d always dressed nice for the job, favoring slim fit three piece suits, honoring what used to be the nobility associated with their craft. It was people like him who had brought totalitarian regimes to the ground, started wars, altered the course of history. 

Nowadays every kid who plays a violent video game thinks they have what it takes to get into the business. He’d run into the type sometimes. Assassins could usually identify each other - always alone, body tense, eyes cagey. In Luxembourg, there one would be, wearing cargo shorts and a baseball cap. What these pups didn’t realize was that a suit got you places. People didn’t suspect you of anything other than egregious capitalism. In a suit, you looked to the outside world like a perfectly upstanding citizen. The general populous naively believed you were one of  _ them _ and let you get closer than they would normally. 

Assassination wasn’t a game. It was an art in deception, seduction, and gaining people’s trust.  

His eyes followed his soiled tie and continued to the ground, glaring down at his feet. His gaze skipped over the reflection in the shine of his shoes to focus on the head between his feet. The head that was attached to the neck that was currently oozing blood on the soles of his shoes. He sighed again. This is why he didn’t like close range jobs. They tended to get messy. 

The mark had been framed between the fixed steel sights of his Walther PPK. Male, 45 years old, long salt and pepper goatee. Gold had clocked all of the physical characteristics in order to get a positive id. Taking out the wrong mark was a rookie mistake that Gold had never made in his twenty year career and wouldn’t start now. 

He was in Barcelona but the  cosmopolitan capital’s stunning features were lost on him. Gold liked to canvas the town before a hit, get a sense of foot traffic, identify the proper time and place to finish the job. Cities were not looked at for their architecture or historical churches or stunning views. They were analyzed in the sense of sightlines and obstructions and witnesses.  

A breeze from the north ruffled the long strands of his hair. He adjusted his sights accordingly.  

It was evening, so the streets had mostly cleared. The mark was alone, coming out of a bar and taking the back streets, meaning no closed circuit cameras to contend with. Gold could get the job done, a small needle shot into the back delivering just enough serum to mimic a heart attack, collect the evidence, then be back at the hotel inside an hour. Easy mark. 

He wouldn’t miss the shot because Gold was nothing if not precise. Grazing someone or relying on hand-to-hand combat left people, more often than not, begging for their lives on their knees in front of him. Those kinds of hysterics offended him. These weren’t innocent people he was hired to take out. They were your dictators, your child traffickers, real scum of the earth. He didn’t check the dossiers he was given on the people he was hired to kill anymore, to study their list of sins. But, chances were, if Gold’s shadow darkened your path, you did something to bring him there. When they had the audacity to plead with him, to ask him for mercy, they were giving in to their basest instincts of weakness and desperation. Desperation being the ultimate sin.  

That’s what his mentor, a man who went by Zoso, had seen in him. 

_ I know how to recognize a desperate soul _ , he’d told Gold.

Gold had been hopeless, living impoverished and powerless in Glasgow. Zoso had recognized in him a desolation that allowed for a certain moral gray area.  

At Zoso’s tutorage he’d been trained in the art of killing people for hire. A lucrative business indeed. How had Zoso, just by looking at him, known what he was capable of? Of how many lives he could snuff out and still be able to look at himself in a mirror? It didn’t matter. Zoso been the only one to see anything in his wretched soul. The only one to ever believe in him. 

He advanced on his mark, coming up silently behind him. The needle affixed to the front of his gun. 

Gold’s phone beeped. 

Nothing too loud, but just jarring enough in the otherwise silent ally to alert the man that there was someone behind him and cause him to turn around, his eyes directly meeting Gold’s.  

Gold cursed. 

Maybe the man had enemies and sensed who he was and why he was there. Either way, in that split second that hung between them, the man decided to defend himself instead of accepting his fate. He ran at Gold, the change in strategy forcing him to abandon the gun in exchange for his long knife, a sinuous heirloom he kept inside his suit jacket, also a gift from Zoso. 

People entering the business now carried laptops and tracking devices and sleeker, lighter equipment. Gold preferred the instruments he’d started with. They were antiques, like him. 

Despite being outweighed, all it took was one step to the right when the man lunged. In one smooth motion Gold grabbed the mark by the hair with one hand and the hilt of the knife with the other, bringing it to the man’s throat and slicing clean through. Whatever scream the mark was preparing to make came out in a soft gurgle of blood from his trachea. 

The death was quick. Gold didn’t believe in torture. He wasn’t paid by the level of pain he dished out, just the end result.   

Regardless, he now had a dead mark at his feet and a mess to clean up before bystanders came by and the body count got out of hand. 

He took out his phone to see who was to blame for complicating his night.  

_ Given any more thought to my proposal?  _

It was Hades.  _ Another _ message from Hades. Hitmen liked to use pseudonyms so no one would ever know their real identity. “Hades” thought he was being clever. Gold had never bothered to change his name. He had no one to protect. No wife, no kids, no family.  

He knew what the text was about. Hades was trying to put some sort of collective together. He’d been at it for years. But Gold had never had any interest. He worked alone. Hades was selling it as a sort of union, but Gold strongly suspected everyone would end up working for Hades. This was a man who liked to call himself the God of Death when he was feeling particularly peacocky, after all. 

Hades mistook their comparative ages and fondness for impeccably tailored suits for being birds of a feather. Gold flocked with no one. 

He hit delete and put his phone back in his pocket. He looked back down at the scene before him. 

He took his pocket square out and knelt down, wiping the blood off the corners of his shoes so he wouldn’t leave bloody tracks directly to his door when the Barcelona police made a half-assed attempt to solve the murder of what was most likely a criminal with many enemies.  

_ Killing people was getting repetitive. _

What the fuck was wrong with him? Real people found paying bills repetitive. Going to an office repetitive. Not watching the last glimmer of life fading out of another human’s eyes. 

There was a twinge in his ankle when he got up, reminding him of his age. Maybe he was getting too old for this. 

Mortality, conveniently enough, didn’t weigh heavily on him. We all have graves waiting for us. Gold wondered where his was. He was already a ghost. Moving through the world but not part of it. 

_ What was the point of continuing on then?  _

Money was no longer an issue. He had plenty of that stashed away. Egypt had been particularly lucrative this year. But what would he do with it? Giving it to charity made it look like he was repenting, which he wasn’t. He could retire in order to travel, but he’d already done that ten times over. Did it count as seeing the world if you only traveled it to kill people? 

He contemplated all of this on his walk back to his hotel. 

But all was moot because in his room waiting for him was a thick manilla envelope wrapped in duct tape. His next assignment. Jobs were bid on through the Dark Net and dossiers received via unknowingly complicit courier. Gold always had another job lined up before he finished his current one. No point in taking a break between gigs because there was no “home” to return to. 

Gold got out his knife, the same one that had just killed a man, and cut through the tape. Inside would be the identity of his next mark. That’s all it was and ever would be. They weren’t people with names, jobs, families, houses, lives, or dreams. They were a job. That’s what all people were, in reality. Never get close or attached to anyone, they might just be your next hit. 

Gold didn’t particularly care who it was. In the envelope would be the name, address, and every deep dark secret of the next person he had to kill. Some people in his line of work like to use those details to psych themselves up. Reading someone’s dirty laundry made them easier to kill. But that had stopped being a necessity for Gold ten years ago.

Right now, he just needed to know where to book the next plane ticket to. 

He lifted out the top page of the dossier, just enough to read the location and nothing else. 

_ Storybrooke, Maine.  _


	2. Chapter 2

The bell hanging over Game of Thorns’ cherry red door jangled as Belle let herself in to her father’s shop. She inhaled the familiar floral scents. Some people found the fragrance overpowering, but to her it was home. Literally. She’d taken her first steps while bracing one pudgy baby arm against the cooler doors. In the back of the store was a door frame with a succession of lines carved in it, marking her heights from birth to high school graduation. She could discern the changing of the seasons, not because of her decision to wear a coat, but by the slight change in aroma when she opened the door to deliver her father his lunch.

She came by the flower shop every work day to bring him food, lest he get so involved in work he forgot to eat at all. At noon, like clockwork, she arrived carrying either something homemade in a brown paper bag or takeout from Granny’s wrapped in styrofoam and plastic. Today it was a turkey sandwich, apple, and carrot sticks she’d compiled before leaving for the library.

Two steps inside the shop, she almost collided into someone darting from behind a display wall of roses too tall to see over. Belle threw an arm over the bag she carried to protect the contents from getting squashed.

“Hello, Mother Superior!” Belle greeted, taking a step back and placing a hand on the diminutive nun’s shoulder to steady the both of them.

“Good afternoon, Belle,” the nun dropped the hand that had flung to her chest in surprise. “I must not have heard the bell.” She recovered herself, “Thank you again for the generous book donation.”

Like the librarian before her, every year Belle sponsored the book sale held during the convent’s biggest annual fundraiser, Miner’s Day. The civic affair held a special place in Belle’s heart. The Miner’s Day Festival was where, when she was a very little girl, she'd found her favorite book, _Her Handsome Hero_ . She'd begged her mother to let her get it and not only had she bought it for her, she'd read it to her every single night until Belle learned to read on her own. That book, and all the others after it, continued a love affair with books that she shared with her mother. It was what had made her want to become a librarian. When she was 19, she'd replaced the old librarian that sold _Her Handsome Hero_ to her that fateful day, and she'd been at the post ever since.  

“I’m happy to,” Belle replied genuinely.

“Every little bit helps,” Mother Superior insisted. “Nowadays, people are so busy,” she shook her head. “But I can always count on you.”

Belle winced. She knew she hadn’t meant to, but Mother Superior’s last observation had stung. _Reliable Belle_. That was her. Always around, always available. She was delighted to help the community that had given her so much, she really was. But lately she’d been wondering what it would be like to say no every once in a while because she wouldn’t be home. She’d be far away, traveling.

She’d meant to leave Storybrooke, to go to college, and see the world. But there was always a reason to defer. The death of her mother, a flower shop that needed help, a library that would close without her, responsibilities she felt obligated, or was expected, to stick around for. She was ingrained in this town now, she sometimes feared to her detriment.

She was now a very single adult. She ran the library and helped her father with the flower shop during the busy holidays. She truly loved the people here, growing up with a tight group of friends who she was still close to. Yet lately she felt as if she existed on the outskirts of Storybrooke. People met, got married, had families, came and went; but she, and Storybrooke, stayed the same.  

“We’ll see you at Miner’s Day then,” Mother Superior told her as way of goodbye.  

Belle struggled to place a genuine smile on her face so she nodded instead. “I’ll be there.”

She’d be there. Like she always was.

The bell behind her signaled that Mother Superior had left. Belle sighed. So she’d continue to surrounded herself with books about the adventures she couldn’t have. She longed for something to happen in this town, since she couldn’t leave it. Or maybe someone to come through and whisk her away, shaking up her safe little world. That was maybe too romantic a thought, even for her.  

 _Might as well wish for a white knight on a galloping stead while I’m at it_.

She weaved her way through the rows of flowers to the back of the shop where her father stood behind the counter.

“Hi, Dad,” she called.

 

Moe French looked up from whatever order form he was concentrating on, a scowl on his face. “Hello, Belle,” he grinned, any remnants of his serious mood gone.   

She held up the bag, “Brought you your lunch.”

He stepped aside to made room for her on the other side of the counter. “You take such good care of me, Princess,” he told her, using his nickname for her.  

She shrugged his observation off. Of course she did. Her father was the most important person in her life. He was the only family she had. Which was what made her feel so guilty about her daydreams of being far, far away from Storybrooke. Why was she wishing time with her only living relative away?

“I can’t stay today,” she told him, sliding the bag across the counter. “Mary Margaret’s class is visiting at 12:30. But meet at home for dinner?”

“See you at six,” he smiled warmly at her again.  

She leveled her most serious gaze at him. “And make sure you eat all the carrots this time!” she scolded, pointing at him as she walked backwards towards the exit.

Moe chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re worse than your mother.”

She gave him a wave over her shoulder and hurried back out of the shop and across the street.

If she couldn't leave Storybrooke, maybe adventure would one day come to her. But she doubted it. Nothing ever happened in this town, nothing exciting anyway, therefore nothing ever happened to her. Storybrooke was a safe place full of safe people. Every day was like the one before, with the annual interruption of the Miner’s Day Festival, but even that was getting old. She'd seen it over twenty times already.

_Face it, your parents moved here, you were born here, and you’ll die here._

There were worse ways to live a life, she reminded herself. She loved her little library. But she wanted to see something outside the books she read. Maybe experience some of the things she found in them...like the romance novels she’s found herself picking up in lieu of classic literature lately.

She'd had her high school boyfriend, Gaston, who worked at the Storybrooke veterinary clinic and who everyone in town, including her father, expected her to marry. But she had broke it off after high school, wanting to be free in case opportunity came calling and she could steal away at a moments notice, nothing tying her down. But with no money, and no car except the Game of Thorns van, she was stuck regardless.

Belle didn't think she wanted to marry a man like Gaston anyway. Gaston had no interest in life outside Storybrooke. It's not that she didn't love Gaston, or Storybrooke, she simply wanted the choice to choose them instead of having them chosen for her. She wanted to decide her own fate.

But, as yet another Miner’s Day festival rolled around, it seemed like circumstances had decided for her. She unlocked the doors to the library, took down the “Will Return Soon” sign in the window, and took her place behind the circulation desk.

So she'd sit here, behind this desk, continue to bring her father his forgotten lunches, and donate to the nuns, until adventure found her.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_What fresh hell was this?_

Gold peered out the windshield at the jaunty _Greetings from Storybrooke, Maine_ sign featuring a picturesque lighthouse and seagull. They both greeted him as if they didn’t sense the tidal wave coming in behind them, threatening to wipe them both out.

It was like he’s stepped into _The Andy Griffith Show_. It was the kind of small town he didn’t think existed in the States anymore. He read off the businesses as he eased the Lincoln Continental down Main Street. Candlestick Makers, Franklin's Towing & Salvage, the Rabbit Hole, Harmony Mortuary.

Mortuary indeed. He felt one step closer to hell, a place he was guaranteed to go, already. Ironically, despite killing as many people as he had, he'd yet to attend a funeral. He hadn’t gone to his father's. He'd paid for it, but hadn't shown up. Gold had no idea if his mother was alive or dead. He had the resources now to find out where she went and what she'd abandoned her family for, if he really wanted to know. But he didn't. What did it matter now?   

He’d rented the Caddy for the long drive from the airport because he liked old things with history. The stuff nobody else wanted. A little like himself, if he wanted to get Freudian about it, which he didn’t.

By the looks of it, every citizen of Storybrooke was out for a leisurely Sunday stroll. Random strangers raised their arms in hello as he slowly rolled by.  

His eyes narrowed in return. People jaywalked carelessly across the street wherever they pleased. He slammed on the breaks when a young couple holding hands darted out in front of him. They waved at him, barely apologetic, and dashed the rest of the way across the street. While not entirely out of the realm of possibility, this couple was probably not who he was sent here to kill. Would have been convenient if it was though. He could have made it look like a hit and run and completed the job without even leaving the car.

He still hadn’t looked through the rest of the dossier to see what he was even doing here. He’d spent the lengthy plane ride over staring out the window, the assignment forgotten on the foldout table in front of him. He generally flew private charter, fewer questions and no security check. Otherwise, he was forced to get a gun and other necessities from a local supplier when he landed. But lately he felt attached to his Walther and dagger. He didn’t know why. So he’d spent the trip surrounded by empty seats.

He gave up on navigating the suspiciously crowded streets, pulled the car over, and climbed out. He preferred to canvas on foot anyway. It gave him an opportunity to scout possible locations for the job and potential obstacles.

Storybrooke was a small fishing village and he didn’t need the cannery sign to tell him there was one nearby. Equally overwhelming was the odor of maple and burnt tomato sauce wafting out of an establishment called Granny’s Diner.

What would the reason for the assignment be this time? A royal on the run? Or something as mundane as a cheating spouse? Did it even matter anymore?   

He moved purposefully down the sidewalk, watching townies call hello to one another and stop to chat. Several insignificant conversations about small town life floated to him. An adult and a couple kids spilled out of Any Given Sundae. These people thought they were having significant family moments. They were naive. Every single one of these people were interchangeable, their experiences identical to every other person on the planet. Their lives weren’t the least bit sacred if you realized that, at any moment, millions of people all over the world were also getting married, fucking, procreating, eating ice cream. They lived in a state of ignorance about what a horrible, senseless place the world could be. Apparently he’d been the one sent here to teach them that lesson.  

“Candle?” someone barked at his elbow.

He looked down at a rugged man in a wool hat clutching a pillar of wax in one hand. The man shoved it at Gold.

They let their mentally ill run the streets in Storybrooke, apparently.

Gold squinted at him. “No,” he brushed past the man and continued on.  

He didn’t get ten yards before another of Storybrooke’s finest rushed at him. This time an old woman.

“Can I interest you in a candle?”

“No,” he insisted louder this time, shrugging her off. He gave up finding an appropriate assassination location and took up a search for a bar instead. Did they even sell alcohol in this town? He wouldn't be surprised if word that prohibition had been lifted hadn't reached them yet.

“Hi there!” A tall blonde man with blue eyes and a pearly white smile blocked his way.

_If he tries to give me another candle I’m going to stick it so far up his..._

“David Nolan,” he said instead, sticking out his hand.

Gold stared at the proffered hand. Then back up into Nolan’s puppy dog eyes.

Nolan dropped his hand. “Town sheriff,” he offered humbly. “Doesn’t take long for word to get out that there’s someone new in town.”

Gold glanced up and down the street. He counted at least a dozen sets of eyeballs on him and the good sheriff. He sniffed, “Nothing better to do, I see.”

Nolan smiled apologetically, “We don’t get many new people. What brings you to town?”

“Just passing through.”

Nolan waited, obviously not satisfied with his answer.

“Antiques,” he added reticently. If he was forced to give an occupation in any part of the world, he chose antiques dealer. It explained the traveling and worked no matter what country you were in. Every city had what it considered valuable stuff. But no one was interested or knowledgeable enough to want to draw him further into conversation.

It worked again because the sheriff stared at him blankly. “Well we got enough of those around here. Storybrooke’s a hidden gem. I bet all the good stuff hasn’t been picked over by the New York vultures yet.”

“Good afternoon, David.” They were interrupted by a woman with short cropped dark hair clutching, _for the love of Christ_ , several candles. Though she, unlike every other goddamn citizen in this town, didn’t spare Gold a glance as she strolled by them.   

“Mary Margaret,” Nolan breathed, his gaze following her long after she’d turned her back on them and moved on.

Gold glanced down at Nolan’s left hand. A gold band on his ring finger.

The sheriff followed his gaze and quickly stuffed his hand into his jacket pocket. He coughed, “School teacher. Upstanding member of the community.”

 _And five to one odds they were having a salacious affair_.

Gold knew towns like this. He knew from over a hundred dossiers that looks could be deceiving. This all American boy was no different. Gold could have been hired by this man’s wife to kill him or the little school teacher he was sticking it to.

He really had to look at that dossier.

“Having a run on wax, Sheriff?”

Nolan laughed, “No, it’s the annual Miner’s Day festival. It’s actually a beautiful story,” he continued, ignoring Gold’s obvious disinterest. “The nuns used to make candles and trade them with the miners for coal.”

“Heartwarming,” Gold replied dryly.

“Now it's used as a fundraiser. Every year booths with games and entertainment are set up in town. The nuns make their own candles and sell them to raise money for the convent. It's an amazing party and everyone loves it. At the end, we turn out all the lights in town and we pass a flame around until everyone’s candle is lit.”

Before Gold could give the sheriff an honest assessment of his crock of shit story, they were interrupted yet again.  

“Can I interest either one of you gentleman in a…” Nolan stuck out his hand, but not unkindly, cutting off what Gold was about to say to her. “Thank you, but not now, Esther.”

Ester gave them a shy smile and sulked off.

Nolan turned back to Gold. “It’s really a sight to behold if you’ll be with us that long.”

He would rather gouge his eyes out with a rusty fork than stand in a kumbaya circle with the residents of Storybrooke.

Gold wrinkled his nose, “Unlikely.”

Nolan grinned, “Very well. If you need anything while you’re in our fair city, let me know.”

“Again, unlikely.”

Nolan smiled - _did the man have any other reaction?_ \- and finally left Gold by himself.

The idea of needing the Sheriff while on this particular business was laughable.

Gold suddenly realized his mistake of standing still too long. He felt a street full of people notice his lack of a candle and preparing to descend. It was unnerving. He’d killed people in smaller towns than this. Why was every so curious and... _friendly_? Hadn’t their parents drilled into their thick skulls that you shouldn’t talk to strangers? And he was the ultimate stranger.  

Everywhere he looked, someone was smiling at him.

He was going to kill someone. At this point it didn’t matter whether he was paid for it or not.

If he got somewhere private, looked in the envelope, and completed his job, he could be out of town by tonight. It didn’t even have to be a particularly clean job. The podunk sheriff noticing him didn’t concern him. A town this size wouldn’t have a forensic pathologist.

His skin beginning to crawl and needing a place to regroup, Gold hurried down the sidewalk and grabbed the first door handle he came to, wrenched it open, and ducked inside.


	4. Chapter 4

The door slammed behind him and the street noise was immediately extinguished. It was silent and dark inside and the agitation he’d picked up on the street began to dissipate. Though he hoped he hadn’t inadvertently slipped into a church. Considering the room hadn’t burst into flames upon his entering, he assumed not. 

His eyes adjusted to the dim lighting and he began an inventory of his surroundings, the same as he did in any unfamiliar location.   

He was in a library. The fish smell finally cleared from his nostrils and he could pick up the whiff of dusty old books. Rows of shelves stretched across the room and a large service desk was on his right. He walked further in, roaming the stacks, his shoes echoing in the empty room. As inexplicably bustling as the town was, this place of higher learning was remarkably quiet. 

Despite his lifestyle, mostly because of it, Gold read a fair amount. Traveling alone and living in hotels when you’re not a lover of television left very little else to do. He’d never gotten a library card though. He traveled light, never stayed in one location long, and preferred to leave as little a trace as possible when he did. So he read whatever crappy novel the room’s previous occupant had left behind. That’s how he’d picked up French, Portuguese and a number of other languages that came in handy when you were traveling the world killing people. 

As he perused shelves at random, he noticed many of the tomes were travel guides. Entire sets of them.  _ Fodor’s, Lonely Planet, National Geographic, Rick Steves,  _ even  _ A Beginners Guide to Living in an RV _ . He didn’t know what purpose they served. They were hours from an airport and it didn’t seem like any of the townies were in a real hurry to hit the open road. It was obviously the kind of town where you were born, spent your entire life, and died. As one unlucky member of the community was about to prove. 

He really needed to read that damn dossier.   

He plucked a book off the shelf at random and began leafing through it. Maps and color photographs of sights he was vaguely familiar with assaulted him. It highlighted the experiences and must-see sights of many of the countries he’d passed through to complete a job. Not that he’d done or seen any of them. 

He slid the book back on the shelf and took a step back. Even the book displays at the end of each row were travel themed. France, Germany, South America. Each exhibit held travel books, fiction, and nonfiction that either pertained to the country or was written by a native author. He picked another book and flipped the front cover open and slid the checkout card from the pocket. It had never been stamped. Just like the majority of the books in front of him, this one had never been checked out but yet was heavily thumbed through. 

“Can I help you find something?” 

He jerked in surprise and whipped around towards the voice, hand automatically going to the hilt of the knife inside his jacket. 

Standing before him was a beautiful young woman with wide blue eyes and auburn waves of hair framing her face. She looked at him curiously, obviously not considering him a threat. It probably looked to her like she’d startled an old man hard of hearing who’d thrown his hand on his heart in surprise.  

Gold slowly relinquished his chokehold on the dagger. She’d sneaked up on him. The simple fact of it stunned him. No one ever got the drop on him. To let your guard down like that in his line of business meant certain death. Was he losing his edge? Was he actually getting too old for this? Or was he secretly wishing for someone to make the choice for him and put him out of his misery?

Either way, the girl in front of him wasn’t going to be the person to do it. Her face was round, her skin porcelain, her lips red. Her skirt and shirt were cutesy mismatched prints. He knew enough to know looks could be deceiving and you shouldn’t trust anyone, but there were literal hearts on the sleeves of her shirt. She was telegraphing every thought in her head. In spite of the obvious innocence, she was teetering on pin thin heels that wouldn’t look out of place on a 1950s pinup. Everything about her screamed the small town librarian of a prepubescent boy’s wet dream.

Before he could answer her original question, she looked down at his hands at the book he was holding. He followed her gaze. It was a travel guide for, facetiously, Spain. 

“Spain!” she beamed. “Have you been?”

_ Several times. Most recently Barcelona where I slit a man’s neck, ear to ear and watched him bleed out. _

“Yes.” 

When interacting with people while on a job, it was always better to tell the truth, in as few words as possible, rather than lie. Some contract killers liked creating elaborate personas and backstories when they went out on a job. He knew quite a few who would even practice fake accents in an attempt to blend in. He’d never bought into any of it. They were assassins, not in summer stock. To hide behind a fabrication is fooling yourself to who you really are. If you couldn’t get the job done and still live with yourself, well, you were in the wrong business.   

“You have?” Her eyes, if at all possible, brightened even more. “What was it like?” 

He took a moment to consider his trip. If the breeze hadn’t have kicked up he wouldn’t have had to adjust his scope, leaving him plenty of time to shoot the needle of poison straight into the mark’s neck. The man would have staggered confusedly for a moment, but seconds later his heart would have seized and he would have collapsed on the ground, dying as planned. Which would have left Gold enough time to grab some paella instead of thought spiraling into the crisis of self-doubt he’d been in, questioning his ability to continue to do his job, ever since.  

“Windy.” 

Symptomatic to the residents of Storybrooke, just like the Sheriff, the librarian wasn’t put off by his one-word answers. 

“I’ve always dreamed of going,” she sighed, and proceeded to rattle off a number of random facts about Spain and specific tourist traps she wanted to visit. 

Her voice has a pleasing Australian lilt, but he was distracted by how she bounced on the balls of her feet and clasped her hands together when she talked about something that particularly excited her. 

She seemed to have realized that she was rambling because her litany on the Sagrada Família trailed off. She bit her bottom lip, white teeth digging into plump delicate skin. “Well, that’s what I read anyway.”  

Her cheeks visibly colored. She obviously didn’t have very many visitors to the library. She was embarrassed and instead of using the opportunity to make his escape, a quote from one of the arbitrary hotel novels surfaced in his mind. 

“We may sit in our library and yet be in all quarters of the earth,” he recited.  

She smiled even more radiantly than before. “Exactly!” 

Her long eyelashes fluttered at she continued to study him. She didn’t remind him of any librarian he’d ever known growing up in Scotland, he thought, as he found himself lingering on the heart shape of her upper lip. With a heat creeping up his neck, he thought perhaps he may have made a mistake in coming in here and would prefer to take his chances with the nutters and their candles outside. 

“Belle French,” she introduced herself.  

The formal introduction presented him with the perfect opportunity to take his leave. “Don’t let me take up anymore of your time, Miss French. I’m sure you have other patrons to attend to.” 

He took a step towards the door. He could brush off this chatty young girl, get back to the dossier sitting uselessly in the car, and see whether he could get this job done tonight or whether he needed to find a hotel.   

She shrugged, picking up a stack of books and walking them to the circulation desk, her curls bouncing gently as she went. The distance between them gave him an unobstructed view of her legs, shapely and tapering to delicate ankles. He wasn’t a stranger to beautiful women, but he interacted with very few of them. His work kept him in a physical and emotional bubble. The fewer people that entered his sphere the less danger he, and they, were in. The lack of intimacy, of basic physical contact, could drive you mad. There were ways around this, the majority of them involving the exchange of money. Others involved long-term deception or only having relationships with other assassins and people in equally suspect careers. He’d tried all of them over the years. Though his strategy as of late had him practicing a sort of self-inflicted celibacy that must be starting to show if he was objectifying this young woman.  

“A fourth grade class just left.” His eyes snapped back to her face. “I was in the back cleaning up the children’s section when you came in. Can I interest you in a library card before you go, Mr…” 

He hesitated. Would he have to formally introduce himself to every member of this damn town? 

“Gold,” he supplied. “No need,” he shook his head. “I’m just passing through.” 

She slid the books onto the desk. “Oh,” there was a slight disappointment in her voice he couldn’t pretend not to notice. “Did you bring your family to town for the Miner’s Day festival, Mr. Gold?” she asked without looking at him. 

“No. Like I said, I’m just passing through,” he reminded both of them.

_ The sooner I get out of here the better it will be. For both of us. _

He relied on his trusty conversation killer. “I came to look at some antiques.” 

Instead of recoiling, Belle leaned forward on the desk. “What kind? Do you collect certain items, like furniture or jewelry or clocks? Or is there a particular period you collect, like Renaissance or Neoclassical?” 

_ Well, damn. _

“The antique store in town doesn't currently have a owner, but you might be able to convince the mayor to let you in and look around,” she offered. 

For a moment he let himself fantasize about poking around a room full of dusty antiques with Belle. He would chose things that interested him and she’d tell him all about what she knew about them from her many books. In this vision he also had a house to put these priceless items in and no impatient client who wanted someone dead. 

“It’s of no consequence,” he told her tightly before he took her up on her offer.     

His phone rang, jolting him from the dream sequence he found himself in. The one where he wasn’t who he was and he’d just met a beautiful woman he enjoyed listening to that would lead to a date. A normal date, not one where he had to jet off around the world regularly to kill people. He didn’t even look at the caller ID as the phone continued to chirp. He needed any excuse to escape the eyes that were drawing him further into this delusion. Because the deeper he got in, the more painful it would be to wrench himself out of it.  

“I have to take this, excuse me.” 

She nodded understandingly. She probably wouldn’t be so compassionate if she knew what he did for a living.  

He hurried outside, making sure the door closed behind him. He flipped the phone open and pressed it to his ear. 

“Didn’t know if you got my messages,” the voice on the other end said evenly.  


	5. Chapter 5

_ Hades _ . 

Gold glanced over his shoulder. Belle was framed in the library window, a soft smile on her red lips as she sorted through her books at the circulation desk. For as eager as he’d been to flee from her presence, he now longed to return to the stillness of that room and the quirky little librarian bursting with unfulfilled desires.  

“I got your messages,” Gold sighed into the phone. He forced his back to Belle, taking a few steps down the sidewalk. He knew she couldn’t hear him through the heavy front doors, but for some reason he still didn’t want to have this conversation in her vicinity.  

He and Hades had known each other for many years, and by reputation long before that. In the contract killing business you worked alone, that’s why Gold liked it, but inevitably you got to know other people. There were more assassins in the world than you would think, but not so many that they couldn’t hold an annual Christmas party if they wanted. Which was what Gold likened to what Hades was attempting to do now.  

“Then you know I’m getting together a little union of sorts,” he told Gold in his halting tone.  

“All organized under you, conveniently.” 

On the few occasions that they’d run into each other, Gold had found the man cloying and desperate. Hades loved killing people and Gold had never gotten into this game for the enjoyment of it. Circumstances had presented themselves in a time of desperation and he’d done it to survive. Which begged the question: If he was already rich, why was he still doing it? 

_ Because you wouldn’t know what else to do with your life _ , an inner voice answered him. 

Gold shook the statement off. He walked further down the sidewalk, as if to put distance between him and it. 

“Think of it more as combining powers.” Gold could hear the smile in Hades’ voice. Hades was known to enjoy playing with his prey before making the kill. Gold had no patience for such nonsense.

This was a waste of both their time. If Hades wanted to pitch this stupid idea to him, he wasn’t going to let him beat around the bush any longer.   

“I’m not a team player,” he told him.  

“But that’s what I like about you,” Hades crooned. “You know I’ve always considered us brothers, two of a kind.”

Gold made a face. He’d never had a brother and if he did, it wouldn’t be with a psychopath like Hades. 

_ And what does that make you, exactly? _ The inner voice - he refused to call it a conscious - returned. _ A sociopath? Hardly a difference considering what you do for a living.  _

“Did you know,” Hades teased, “that for the last five years, you and I continually vie for the distinction of the most kills in a year? The greatest rivals can make the greatest partners.” He left the last sentence dangling. 

Gold hadn’t know that. He knew that he worked a lot. He didn’t keep track of how many jobs he took in a year, that path led to madness. He just took enough assignments so he’d be guaranteed to be busy working year round. Holidays meant nothing to him, so the calendar pages kept turning with him taking no notice. He didn’t know exactly how many kills got one ‘first place’, or who in their right mind would keep track of such a thing and why. Nevertheless, the news from Hades didn’t give him any sort of pride.  

“Think about it, Gold. Someone wants someone else dead,” he spoke matter-of-factly. “So they get on the Dark Web and put the request out and what happens? We all end up killing each other for the same few decent assignments...no pun intended.” 

Hades didn’t need to tell him their business was a competitive one. Wires got crossed, intentionally and not, all the time. People were sent out on the same job; assassins murdered each other competing over contracts. It happened more often than it should. But if you weren’t good enough to fend for yourself, well that was on you. 

“Then what’s left but the low paying scraps?” Hades continued. “A bunch of nobodies paying minimum wage for you to kill their neighbor’s dog. By combining our powers, that can change. What I’m offering is quality control,” he cajoled. “We’re going to filter out the kids in this business who don’t know their Sigs from their Sturms. Offers come straight to me, I make sure the right people get the right jobs. You join with me now, you can have your pick of the best assignments. Want to spend the winter in Maui? I'll just wave my well-manicured hand and you’ll be killing strictly islanders all season.”

“I don’t look good in shorts.”  

Hades sighed impatiently, done playing. “I’m letting you in on the ground floor. You’re the only one I’m offering this to.” 

“How generous. How many strings are attached?” 

Hades leveled with him. “The string is...you work for me. If there's something I need you to do that only you can do, you do it.” 

And what would that be? Kill whoever Hades wanted killed, for free? For Gold to further dirty his hands so Hades could start cleaning his? He had no interest in being in Hades debt, or his lap dog. 

“Never gonna happen.” 

“Don’t think of it as a union, but a brotherhood. You and me. We can control the jobs we want to do and give everyone else the assignments in Siberia.”  

The infighting of the contract killing business had never interested Gold. But he also didn’t care enough to play politics and do anything about it.   

When Gold didn’t answer, Hades’ voice tightened. “I’m not offering again. This is your last chance. Either get on the train or get run over. This is going to happen with or without you.” 

“Without,” Gold answered with no hesitation.  

Gold braced himself for the blowback. Surprisingly, Hades’ turned pleasant again. “Where are you anyway? Is that the sea I hear?” 

“None of your concern.”

“Oh, I think it is,” Hades threatened for a final time.  

Gold snapped the phone shut and stuffed it into his pocket. He wasn’t particularly concerned about Hades’ efforts, just annoyed to be bothered with them at all. Every few years someone in the business made a fuss about something they didn’t like. Nothing ever came to fruition and this would be no different. 

He turned around, back towards the library. Social rules dictated he go back inside and continue the conversation he was having with Belle or at least say goodbye. He took several steps in that direction. From where he stood, he could see Belle through the window again. Still alone at the desk, still with that ever-present hopefulness in her eyes. She caught him looking through the window and she stood up taller, her smile widening. She waved at him.  

It looked so welcoming. He’d never desired to enter a building more. 

Which is why he turned right back around and starting walking in the opposite direction.

He wanted desperately to go in, to step back into the warmth of the library - a glow that he suspected came directly from her - and see if she had any tea in one of the back rooms. To sit with her and listen to her talk about her books. Maybe watch her bend down in her little skirt when she dropped one. 

He sped away from the library, but slowed when he feared it looked like fleeing. In these jobs, you didn’t want to be noticed. You had to walk the fine line between being such a loner you aroused suspicion and drawing too much attention to yourself. Ideally, you wanted people to forget you the instant after they met you. Becoming too friendly with the librarian would make it harder for him to disappear when the job was done. 

He strode down the sidewalk with confidence. 

Only to realize he’d parked the car on the other side of the library, in the opposite direction.

See, this was his point. He was losing focus. He’d momentarily forgotten why he was here. Certainly not for this Miner’s Day everyone was beating each other with candles over. He headed back for the car, stalking past the library windows yet again, this time determinedly keeping his eyes fixated on the pavement so he wouldn’t be tempted to glance up to see if Belle was still at the desk.

He made it back to his car unmolested and with no proper hotels in town, and knowing he wouldn’t be staying long, he ended up in one of the rooms above Granny’s. It wasn’t as private as he preferred, but there would be a lack of security cameras, so that worked in his favor.  

Locked in the seclusion of his room, he exhaled in relief. Finally, he was free from the prying eyes and probing questions of the Sheriff, the candle people, the beautiful librarian, and the battleaxe Granny herself. 

He took off his jacket and tie, toed off his shoes, and loosened the top buttons of his shirt. Then he tossed the damn envelope that had been plaguing him onto the middle of the bed. 

Then stood there staring at it.  

He thought back to what Hades had told him, about regularly having the most kills of any currently working assassin. Something twinged deep inside him. His long forgotten conscience? Impossible. Indigestion from the inferior food from Granny’s, maybe. 

He took the dagger out of his jacket that hung on the chair and lowered himself onto the floral bedspread.  

He glared at the dossier. Was this the kill that would put him back in the number one spot? For a split second he started counting back all his recent kills. The guy in Spain, the woman in Ecuador, the half dozen Russia jobs. 

He stopped himself by grabbing the dossier and stabbing the edge of it with the knife. 

This entire day had not gone according to plan and it was beginning to rattle him. Which was worrisome. Nothing should rattle him. If he didn’t have a steady head and hand, he couldn’t do his job. And he had to do his job. There was nothing else  _ for _ him to do.

Then, he was back to where he began when Zoso had found him in a gutter in Glasgow, doing the job because he had to and not because he wanted to. It was as bad as working for Hades.  _ No. _ He just needed sleep. To start this day over again with a clear head.

He flung open the bedside drawer and threw the dossier and dagger on top of the Bible and slammed it shut. Disgusted with himself, he stretched out on the bed and snapped off the bedside lamp.  

The next morning dawned bright. He was beginning to doubt there was any other kind in Storybrooke. He showered and put on a fresh suit, hanging the previous day’s garment on the back of the door. Granny had assured him her granddaughter would pick it up and take it to a same day dry cleaner. He retrieved the dagger from the drawer and placed it back in his coat pocket. Feeling more like himself now, he lifted the dossier from the drawer. Today he felt no angst as he weighed it in his hand. He strolled over to the window, taking a sip from the coffee he’d made in the room’s small four-cup coffee maker. He hadn’t noticed the night before, but from his second floor room he could look across the street at the clock tower and the doors of the library. 

With the dossier in hand and his head on straight, there was nothing keeping him here but his own dilly dallying. He could use the Miner’s Day festival as a cover, get the job done, and get out of town without anyone taking notice. He thought of the librarian and her hopes of also escaping Storybrooke. 

As if on cue, the library doors opened and Belle emerged. Today’s heels were blue and her skirt a sunny yellow. She didn’t get far down the street before she was stopped by other townspeople and pulled into conversation. He noticed no one offered her a damn candle.  

He gripped the envelope in his hand. Regardless, he had to get food first. Couldn’t assassinate on an empty stomach. Maybe there was someplace other than Granny’s to eat in this town. He dropped his coffee cup on the dresser and threw his tie around his neck. He stood on the bed and slid the envelope into the drop ceiling of his room so the granddaughter wouldn’t happen upon it. He knotted his tie, threw on his coat, and rushed down the back steps, letting him out behind Granny’s without having to walk through the restaurant.   

He hurried down the side alley because he was hungry, he told himself. When he emerged onto the street he had to maneuver his way around a flower delivery truck, so he didn’t see the person coming down the other side of the street. He stopped short, almost colliding with someone.  

Not someone. 

She looked different, yet exactly the same. Noticeably less makeup and her hair wasn’t pulled back, but it was definitely her. 

Another assassin. 

Regina.

 

 


End file.
